


What Hunger Taught Us

by sharked



Category: Naruto
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Clan Culture, Cooking, Courtship, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Food, I'm not kidding about the food people, M/M, MadaTobi Week 2019, Madara's still figuring himself out, Pining, Tobirama's adopting all the Uchiha, all the Uchiha are adopting Tobirama, he'll get there, so much food
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-13 10:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20172985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharked/pseuds/sharked
Summary: Tobirama offers up his heart.





	What Hunger Taught Us

**Author's Note:**

> Uzuki. The month of the bridal wreath, blooming pale and soft. A month of rain to water the wheat, the grain, to flush the fields clear and the skies bright. Overhead, wild geese depart for the north, and the swallows return.

The food came on the first of the month without fail.

Tobirama nodded to his former clansmen as they passed through the gates of the Uchiha compound, scanning each cart with a glance. There was little conversation to be had as the Senju halted and unloaded the contents of each cart in the space cleared for them, then retreated a polite distance to wait for their comrades. It made for a strange sight: a cluster of wary-eyed Senju faced by equally wary Uchiha, a small fortune’s worth of foodstuffs and Tobirama between them. On the edge of his vision he could see Madara looking over the ever-growing pile, dark eyes conflicted. Tobirama could not help but agree.

The soft flare of chakra presence--static sparks, the crack of split bamboo, burnt orange peel and ozone--warned him a heartbeat before Izuna bumped their shoulders together. “Your brother really doesn’t get the meaning of restraint, does he,” he said, not bothering to phrase it as a question.

“What gave it away?” Tobirama sighed. Together they watched the Senju at work, uncovering sacks of rice, oats, fox-tailed millet. Then piles of earthy shiitake, daikon radish and taro root almost spilling out of their baskets. Then pouches of soy beans and black and brown sesame, filled fit to bursting. Fat yellow pears and pomegranates, jujubes, soft golden apricots decadent in their fragrance. Nothing pickled or salted or preserved, everything fresh and ripened to perfection.

Sweet Sage, most of the food delivered wasn’t even in season. If his brother were here, Tobirama would have knocked him over the head until he staggered.

Cousin Kenjiro started in on his box of offerings, and here Tobirama bit back a grimace. Instead of food, Kenjiro unloaded an armful of scrolls, unsealing them one by one to showcase their contents. The scent of brine cut through the air with the appearance of heaps of fat-bodied tuna and mackerel, of sea urchins and octopus. Next came glistening bundles of seaweed and nets full of mussels and shijimi clams and abalone, still dripping with ocean water. Then, finally, bags upon bags of salt.

No doubt Hashirama thought the presentation a grand show of friendship, had planned it so. But Tobirama remembered the precision of Elder Satoko’s smile nearly a year before, when news came that rising hostilities with the Yamanaka and their allies had cut off the Uchiha’s access to the sea. To a recent enemy primed to read ill intent, the gesture bordered on largesse, on conceit--or worse, a threat. _Look at our wealth_, it whispered. _Our riches, our bounty. Look at everything we have that you do not. Look at everything we can deny you._

There was absolutely no need for horse-drawn carts, for a dozen of Tobirama’s kin to escort them. With Mito’s skill in fuinjutsu, a single shinobi could have transported everything with little fuss. Looking at the almost obscene display of wealth through his adopted clan’s eyes, he had to sympathize with Madara’s dark mood.

Hashirama’s enthusiasms always made him careless. Tobirama had hoped dearly someone would rein in his brother in his absence.

He shook off Izuna’s weight. “Go entertain your brother. He’s looking ready to set something on fire.” 

“Like that’s anything new,” Izuna called after him, but he didn’t bother replying. Instead he headed for Touka, who was leaning into quiet conversation with the quartermaster (Hitomi, retired from the field, sings off-key in the early morning) over the manifest.

Touka held up a fist for Tobirama to tap. “Cousin,” she said in greeting. “How goes married life?”

”Blissfully. Do we have everything?”

“Just about. I already gave Hashirama’s latest bout of gushing to your man--” “Please don’t call him that--” “And there’s some letters for you from Mito mixed in somewhere with the others.”

“Ah.” Tobirama ducked his head in a smile. His sister-in-law was a rare blessing, and by far his favorite correspondent. Hashirama’s eagerness made him a flighty and often incoherent letter writer. Touka was an avid reader, but harbored little patience for her own writing. 

He wriggled his fingers at Hitomi’s daughter Tomoe, four months old and snugly tucked into her mother’s free arm. Tomoe blew a spit bubble in reply.

Amusement tickled his senses, and he looked up from where he was tapping at Tomoe’s grasping hands. A poorly stitched wound left Hitomi’s lip twisted up in a permanent sneer, but her eyes gleamed with good humor. A right fool he must look, making faces at her child. Tobirama coughed and drew back, trying not to brush at his clothes self-consciously.

Touka was grinning with all her teeth.

Hitomi was kind enough to return to the manifest without comment, diverting Touka’s attention with a question about how sealing affected the shelf-life of the seafood. The three of them quickly fell into a discussion on which foods would be best cooked or eaten fresh, on what would be distributed among the households and what would be preserved and consigned to the communal larder. Touka eventually peeled away with a wave to collect her Senju and move the carts outside the compound walls. Hitomi signaled a few of her clansmen to start divvying up portions, and jerked her head at Tobirama to help.

One by one, he handed out bundles of food to reverent hands, his senses brushing up against the soft, frayed feeling of their relief and gratitude. Izuna stood next to Madara off to one side, popping a handful of cherries into his mouth. His expression was nonchalant, but Tobirama could see him lingering over the taste of each one. Madara turned his head to say something, his hair falling free with the movement. The divots in his cheeks carved from hunger had mostly smoothed out after months of increased provisions, but the shadows of stress and memory remained.

The Uchiha were a proud people. Even when Tobirama had no love to spare for them, he had always respected that. But hunger had broken them in a way centuries of war could not. 

Tobirama was careful not to let his gaze linger over any one person, but even so some things were difficult to miss. A father (Asato, widower of three years, slept fitfully through the night) brushed off the fuzz on two peaches before passing them to his twin sons, each one almost bigger than they could hold in their cupped hands. He could see the tightness around the man’s eyes where he held back tears. 

Even at a distance, Tobirama could smell the sweetness of the peaches. Could taste late spring, early summer, the prickle of sunshine across his brow. The sons’ delight was a fizzing pop of carbonation between Tobirama’s ears, a burst of golden honey on the tongue. He closed his eyes.

Once, Tobirama had cooked peaches in their own syrup and a dusting of rare, precious cinnamon and fed them to his brothers. He still remembered the weight of Itama in his lap, warm and content and smelling of spices. Remembered the feel of Kawarama drowsing under his arm, sticky-sweet kisses pressed against his cheek as evening fell around them.

Remembered more recently Hashirama, eyes stubborn, voice pleading. _Won’t you at least try, Tobirama?_

The air weighed thick with salt and sugar, with herbal sesame leaf and sharp, clean yuzu. Beneath that hung a frail latticework of slowly-growing excitement, of a gentle, feathered hope so foreign that the Uchiha--his Uchiha, now--almost dared not believe in it.

_Won’t you try?_

Yes. Yes.

Let this peace last, he prayed. I will see it last.

**Author's Note:**

> What I intend to write: this is going to be DARK and GRITTY and BADASS. holy shit look at these BADASSES running around doing BADASS THINGS. NINJAS FUCK YEAH. zack snyder eat your monochromatic heart out. holy shit
> 
> What I actually write: soft boys. so soft. the softest. have a blanket, soft boys.
> 
> Me:
> 
> Me: Mission accomplished.


End file.
